


FiddAuthor Drabbles

by bananabog



Series: The Drabble Series [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Crack, Fluff, M/M, PWP, fiddauthor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-29 10:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 3,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6371557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananabog/pseuds/bananabog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of miscellaneous FiddAuthor drabbles in 100- and 300- words formats. </p><p>Ratings and prompts to be indicated in the titles. <b>Listed as "Completed" as it'll no longer be updated.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Multiply That By (NSFW) - Crack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "FiddAuthor smut: fun with the cloning machine"
> 
> 4 x 100- drabbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Complete crack-porn please do not take seriously lol

“Stanford, we’ve talked about this…!” Fiddleford trips over backwards. He tumbles straight into Stanford’s waiting arms and he curses, struggling futilely, as the Stanford behind him tightens his hold, while the Stanford advancing towards him keeps smiling. “The experiments are NOT to be used for debauchery!”

“But I have evidence suggesting otherwise.” Cloneford parts Fiddleford’s knees. The inventor whimpers, as Cloneford simply breathes over his tented nether regions. “And a good scientist should take all things into consideration.”

“You’re going to start _melting_ ,” he protests, feebly. “B-Bodily fluids, sweat, ejaculate – ”

Stanford’s clone smirks, and pulls on a glove.

“Latex.”

x x x

He’ll deny it to his grave, but Fiddleford has to admit that the… _experiment_ … isn’t all that bad, really.

After all, it’s not every day he finds himself with his cock down Stanford’s eager throat while said man’s clone simultaneously makes it his life’s mission to nail the inventor’s prostate dead on.

It’s a little weird of course, between all the condoms (not unusual) and the latex gloves (rather unusual) and the extremely careful, controlled application of lubricant to the clone’s, ah, covered _appendages_ (very unusual).

He draws the line once the clone ejaculates toner ink and starts dissolving groin-up.

x x x

The smile on Fiddleford’s face is… too _serene_.

Stanford’s internal alarms start blaring.

“Stanford?” Oh god. He _sounds_ peaceful, too. “What’s the chemical formula for Phosphorus Pentachloride?”  

“Uh.” If he runs right now he might be able to make the door. “PCl5…?”

“Correct. Now, let’s say I’m Chloride.” Two more figures loom up behind Fiddleford. They’re all wearing that same tranquil smile. “What would that make you?”

Stanford has a feeling the other two clones are behind him. His back hits outstretched palms, and he hangs his head.

“Phosphorus,” he sighs, defeated, pocketing his glasses for safe-keeping. “Make it quick.”

x x x

He’s not sure if this is a punishment or a reward.

He’s in sensory overload. There are hands – so many _hands!_ – all over him: stroking his flank, skimming across his stomach, trailing butterfly-light along the insides of his calves and up to where his thighs meet his body. Soft pads tease and flick at his over-sensitized nipples, rolling them in tandem with his testicles.

They’re all wearing gloves.

“I’m going to have a latex fetish once this is over,” he moans, keening as something blunt presses to his entrance and simply rubs infuriatingly against it.

Fiddleford hums. “That’s the plan.”


	2. Fee Fi Fo Fum - Gen/Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "size-changing crystal mishap"
> 
> 100-drabble.

The giant raises him _up_ , and Fiddleford’s ears pop at an incredible speed.

 _“I have a son,”_ he begs.

“Fiddleford.” The voice is louder than he’s used to, but he recognizes Stanford’s timbre. He gasps as he realizes he’s sitting in a six-fingered palm. “Relax. I’m going to get you back to normal. Just… calm down for now.”  

Stanford gently drops him into his shirt pocket. Fiddleford gives up trying to stay upright. He curls himself tightly into a corner, and rests his head against the warm, comforting thrum of Stanford’s heartbeat beneath him instead.

He yawns. _Huh. Surprisingly cozy…_


	3. Fiddlepaws - Gen/Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Fiddauthor pet play? Bottom Fiddleford"
> 
> 3 x 100-drabbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mentions of sex that was had. Nothing really kinky in terms of pet play tho I am so sorry this is like vanilla as hell because i am a wimp

“Is this… about last night?”

Fiddleford winces in response. Stanford’s stomach drops. It wouldn’t be so bad if he’d actually _remembered_ what had transpired between them between having too many drinks last night, and waking up naked in the same bed this morning.

The inventor tugs at his tie, clearly dismayed.

“ _Please_ don’t tell my wife.”

“You mean, ah, that we…?” Stanford gestures helplessly between them.

Fiddleford turns crimson. “She can’t find out that I like _pretending to be a cat_ , okay?!”  

Oh. Stanford relaxes. That’s… not so bad?

“Or that we fucked.”

 _“Oh my GOD WE DID,”_ Stanford screams.

x x x

He’d been concerned when Fiddleford had continued displaying occasional traces of his previous insanity even after his supposed recovery. Eventually, however, Stanford dredges up that particular memory, and everything falls into place.

“You actually like it.” Stanford can’t quite keep the surprise, nor the relief, out of his voice.

Fiddleford scratches his neck. “Didn’t start doin’ it on purpose when I went crazy, but I figured… heck. Already did it fer thirty years. Couple more won’t hurt.” He hesitates before asking, shyly, “You… don’t mind, do you?”  

“Of course not.” He’s happy if Fiddleford is. “Who am I to judge?”

x x x

He continues “acting up” sporadically. No one pays him any mind; he’s just a crazy old man, doing crazy old things.

It’s quite some time before they actually interact. Fiddleford jerks in surprise and embarrassment when Stanford initiates experimentally scratching him behind his ears one day, while they’re cuddling together and watching TV.  

“Is… is this okay?” Ford looks similarly self-conscious, but also openly curious, his expression honest.

Fiddleford gives a feeble nod before timidly laying his head back on Stanford’s chest.

“Thanks,” he laughs, apologetically. His heart is racing.  

Stanford kisses his forehead. “Don’t be sorry for being you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (...okay but seriously tho coming about about your kinks - like your real, I-ACTUALLY-LIKE-THIS-WHAT-THE-FUCK-IS-WRONG-WITH-ME kinks - can be terrifying as all hell and I kinda wanted to do something comforting with that.)


	4. Don't Tell Her We Had History - Gen/Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Stanford meets Racoon Wife" + "FiddAuthor bonding after Weirdmageddon"
> 
> 4 x 100-, 1 x 300- drabbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-finale, obviously. Complete fluff, with a teensy bit of angst.

“Julia, Stanford Pines. Stanford, meet Scarlett.”

The raccoon swipes at him, hissing. Stanford takes his hand back.

“ _No_ , honey.” Fiddleford taps its nose. “We disfigure ‘em _only_ if they’re enemies.”

Stanford catches a glimpse of a certain… anatomy… between the animal’s hind legs, as it scampers over Fiddleford’s shoulder.  

“Uh, Fiddleford? I think Scarlett – ”

“ – Charlotte.”

“ – Charlotte,” Stanford amends, his smile forced, “might not be… well, female.”

Fiddleford gasps and covers the animal’s ears. “How _dare_ you! She can be whatever she darn wants ta be!”

“I didn’t mean it like th – ” Stanford gives up. “Never mind.”

x x x

A screech sounds outside the house.

“Dad?” Tate hollers. “Think Racoon Mom’s goin’ through th’neighbour’s trash!”

“Oh, Racoon Wife, what have I told ya?!” Fiddleford rushes by them in a blur of white. He’s out the front door before either have time to react. “No more gourmet dining!”

“Tate?” Stanford’s covered his face with both hands, completely horrified by the scene unfolding before him, “Was your father… did he _just_ get out of the shower?”

“…oh my god. DAD,” Tate yells. He snatches up a pair of emergency pants as he chases after the other, “YOU FORGOT YOUR CLOTHES AGAIN!”

x x x

“Was it always this bad?”

Fiddleford’s dozed off in the rocking chair by the fireplace. He snores loudly as Georgia (or Stacy, or… whatever its name was now) picks through his beard and eats whatever it’s found in it.

“Worse.” Tate sips his cocoa. There’s no trace of bitterness in his voice; just… acceptance. Peace. Perhaps a tinge of sadness and regret. “Wasn’t fun watchin’ m’own father go crazy while I was growin’ up. I barely remembered ‘im. Hardly knew ‘im. Didn’t wanna be associated with ‘the crazy old man’ in the slightest. But I know more about ‘im now than the one-sided falsehoods I was constantly fed gettin’ older.” He shrugs and takes another slow swallow. “…I wanna spend time wit’ ‘im. Wanna actually get ta know him – the _real_ him – before it becomes too late ta make amends.”  

“He was a brilliant man, your father,” Stanford says quietly. “He still _is_.”

His full mug has cooled between his hands. He turns it aimlessly between his palms.

“Your father was the best friend… the best _partner_ … that I could have ever asked for.” Stanford’s smile is wistful. Tate quietly picks up his own drink again. “He was my voice of reason. The person who kept me grounded. The one who had my back through thick and thin, even if what he had to go through for me absolutely _terrified_ him. He was incredibly patient, kind, and forgiving… and I pushed those limits. I broke them.” He sighs and looks down into his cup. “…I broke _him_.”

“You _do_ know he’s forgiven you,” Tate states, not unkindly. “And he’s got his sanity back. …some of it, at least.”

Stanford says nothing to that. Tate doesn’t push the subject.

He doesn’t mention it, but… Tate thinks he can forgive Stanford, too.

x x x

“Just hold still. She won’t bite ya,” Fiddleford chirps. “…If her mood’s good.”

“That’s very reassuring,” Stanford grouses, but he does as instructed.

Virginia nudges at his fruit-filled hands with curious paws and sharper claws. Eventually, she’s pacified by the peace offering, and she hops up into Stanford’s lap, making herself comfortable, before greedily gobbling down the cold, tasty treats.

Stanford visibly relaxes at this. He chuckles softly when she finishes eating and begins licking the juice off his fingers.

“Oh.  Um. Stanford? You _might_ not wanna let her do th – ”

“YeeeOOOOW!”

“ – aaaand I’ll get the first aid.”

x x x

“I’m not takin’ any chances, Mr. Stanford It’s-Just-A-Flesh-Wound Pines. Th’ last time yer got bit and didn’t treat it, ya turned into a hornswagglin’ zombie. Now, Daisy here migh’ be rabies-free – ” and Stanford yelps a little as Fiddleford dabs the iodine to the wound, “ – but better safe and sorry.”

Stanford grunts. “That was thirty years ago! And don’t you mean, ‘than’?”

They fall into a good-natured banter as Fiddleford fusses over the bite wound, while Stanford continues trying to brush it off. Tate smiles as his father casually kisses the injured finger, and the other blushes silent.


	5. Half-Timing, Half-Luck (NSFW) - Gen/Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "pillow talk" + "trying to get Ford to sleep for the night" + "goofing around in the mansion".
> 
> 2 x 300- drabbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-finale. Angst, then fluff. Brief mentions of ATOTS events.

It was too perfect. Too right. Too happy. Just like it’d been the night before he’d told Stanley about his plans for West Coast Tech, before his dreams and his relationship with his brother were completely and irreversibly shattered.

He’d been the one to initiate, to suggest their current… arrangement. He’d known from the very beginning that it was never going to last; that it was never going to work out the way they wanted. The McGuckets were rather traditional and would never accept that their son was seeing another man, even if he was just one of the many that had been born to that family tree. Neither would the Pines, for that matter. Ma might’ve allowed him some leeway, perhaps – been a tad more understanding than most of society these days, but with Pa… There wasn’t a chance. Especially not with the way he’d treated Stanley before him.

They’re slightly inebriated by the time they return from dinner, joking and laughing as they fumble with the door to their dorm room. They’re all over each other the instant the lock clicks behind them.

Stanford savors it, goes through the motions as slowly as he can. He’s on death-row with his last meal. He commits the memory of Fiddleford’s lips against his, the soft glide of their tongues, the way his touch feels against his body; the little gasps and cries the other muffles into the nape of his neck as he fills Stanford completely and little by little takes him apart in one of the most glorious, excruciating ways he has ever experienced.

“I’m getting married,” Fiddleford says, once their breathing has resumed its normalcy. He keeps his gaze on the ceiling and swallows audibly.

“I know,” Stanford says.

They don’t stop holding hands until the sun rises.  

x x x

Each is completely unsure of how the other feels. It’s been thirty long years, after all – thirty years…! – and time and experience have worn away at their physicality and mentalities; turned them both into tired old men with too many regrets and too many scars across their hearts.

When Fiddleford had first hugged him, his weary heart had started thundering in his chest like he was fifteen all over again. But Stanford withholds his emotions, controls himself. He keeps his distance, smiling politely; speaking professionally and formerly throughout the reunion dinner that Fiddleford has hosted for the two of them in his newly-purchased mansion.  

“Stay,” Fiddleford requests  as Stanford moves to leave the table, sure that his presence is no longer welcome. Stanford stills like a deer in headlights.

“Please,” Fiddleford adds, pleadingly. Then, in an even softer voice that brims with unspoken emotion, “I’d like you here with me. …If you don’t mind.”

“Of… of course not.”

Stanford is an awkward teenager all over again, red up to the tips of his ears. Fiddleford beams at him, equally shy.

The first contacts are made hesitantly, fleetingly. They jerk back from each other with nervous laughs and mumbled apologies and assurances.

Their first kiss is chaste.

Their next are anything but.

They move faster than two rickety men of their age should be able to. The double doors seal almost with an encouraging finality behind them as Fiddleford – scrawny, stick-and-bones Fiddleford Hadron McGucket – lifts Stanford up and drops them both into the fancy, deluxe canopy bed in the Northwest’s master bedroom.

“I love you,” Fiddleford gasps. It’s the first time he’s said it. He’s crying freely now, but these aren’t tears of remorse. Not at all. “I’ve always – _always_ loved you.”

They kiss again.

“I never stopped,” Stanford murmurs, smiling.


	6. Are You Okay - Angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "angst, Fiddleford meets Bill for the first time"

“Is she still pissed that you chose me over her?”

Fiddleford bites his cheek. Stanford’s been acting… _off_ the entire day, and it’s only gotten worse as the hours tick by.

“She’s fine, thanks.”

“I dunno, Fiddles.” Stanford chuckles. “That last argument sounded pretty terrible. Hey, are you guys, like, divorcing anytime soon? Because that would solve the whole working-too-much problem really eas – ”

The slap resounds throughout the room.

“…so you _do_ have balls,” Stanford hums.

For a second Stanford’s eyes seem to flash yellow behind his glasses. Fiddleford blinks, and it’s gone.

Probably a trick of the light.


	7. Solid Iron - Crack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "old!FiddAuthor, Fiddleford comforting Ford after a rather nasty nightmare?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can deem this as comforting, yeah:

He wakes up with two hands around his throat and _this_ is exactly why he keeps a frying pan within range of his beard at all times.

He bashes Ford over the head with it. Ford is out like a light.

“ _Ohh_ ,” Ford groans, _much_ later, as he stirs awake. “Jeez, what – what in the – ?!”

“Shh-shh-shhhhhh!” Fiddleford presses a finger to his lips. “You had a nightmare. It’s okay! Everything’s okay now.”

“Fiddleford,” Stanford intones, “Why am I trussed up on your bed like a turkey?”

Fiddleford giggles. 

“So you can’t leave until you finish your soup, of course.”


	8. Like an Octopus - Gen/Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "old men bed snuggling"

“Of _course_ not.”

The sarcasm is subtle, but it’s there. Fiddleford sighs and begins disentangling himself.

Ford catches his wrists gently, chuckling. “I was joking, Fidds. What makes you think you’re ‘clingy’?”

“It’s not too much?” Fiddleford mumbles. He can’t recall the last time any part of him _wasn’t_ in physical contact with Stanford’s being.

“We were each alone for the majority of our last thirty years.” Ford gently pulls them back together, smiling as he gathers up the slighter man in his arms. “Personally speaking… it’s not an unwelcome change.”

Fiddleford laughs and wraps himself back around the other.


	9. A Perfect 38 - Gen/Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "FiddAuthor with fail DD&MD roleplay"

“Why did we allow ‘seduce’ to be an option?” Fiddleford’s head is in his hands, but his shoulders are shaking with repressed laughter. “Who came up with the idea of a ‘massive lump of malformed human parts’ as a dungeon guardian?!”

Ford rolls the die and nearly chokes on laughter at the result. “Well, according to this, it also has twenty-six orifices. …I’ll leave which ones to your imagination.”

“Why,” Fiddleford moans, even as he casts his own turn. “I roll to… tenderly caress… the monster’s… _wattles_ … as well as French kiss its armpits. Oh. That is disgusting. _Why,_ god.”


	10. Tamed - Gen/Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "How about Fiddauthor with the two exploring/experimenting with Fidds pet kink more."

It doesn’t really bother Stanford – ‘strange’ has always been the norm for him.

Fiddleford, on the other hand, remains clearly flustered about the issue, even if this was _his_ thing and _his_ request to begin with.

“If it puts you off,” he babbles, wringing his hands, “o-or if it’s too weird, or you don’t w-want to work with me anymore after this – ”

“Good god, man.” Stanford rolls his eyes. “Just do it already. You’re _fine._ ”

It starts off tame (no pun intended). Fiddleford initiates play by cautiously bumping his forehead against Ford’s shoulder as they’re winding down for the day, and noticeably relaxes once Ford accepts the invitation by lightly scratching him behind his ears.

They don’t talk after that – cats aren’t supposed to talk, after all. They relax on the sofa together, and Fiddleford curls up contentedly across Ford’s lap, the other idly stroking his hair, his neck, his sides as he flips through the television channels in companionable silence.

He surprises them both when he makes a purring noise without meaning to. Ford just laughs easily, soothing him with gentle rubs, and Fiddleford eases back into character feeling more relaxed than he’s ever been with himself about his discomforting ‘secret’.

He gets bolder with his requests, in time, as they grow more accustomed to their new routine.

Perhaps even turns them to his own advantages.

“ _No_ ,” Stanford warns, as Fiddleford simply smirks and raises a ‘paw’ above his partner’s mug of coffee. “Don’t you _dare_ – oh my god!”

Fiddleford slowly licks the spilt coffee off of his hand and fixes the other with a smug, half-lidded gaze.

Ford’s grin is strained as he fumbles to unclasp the collar from around Fiddleford’s neck. “That’s it. Playtime’s _over_.”

Fiddleford purrs as the other sweeps him off to their bedroom.


	11. Everything is Different Now - Gen/Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Journal 3.

Fiddleford pecks him on the lips. It’s brief, chaste, completely casual, and _completely unexpected_ and Ford _jumps_ away as though shocked by a live wire.

“WHOA!”

“Whoa!” Fiddleford echoes. He puts his hands up and leans back, eyebrows high. “Sorry about that. Force of habit.”

Ford gapes at him stupidly, fingers caging his face in wide-eyed shock. “’Of habit’?!”

“I said I was sorry!”

“Not about that!” Ford’s eyes dart around the study and now that he looks properly he’s noticing a couple more photo frames of the two of them than he’d had previously, and some décor choices which are clearly the inventor’s, “you – and me – _him_ , we…?! Are you – ? Are _we_ …?!”

Fiddleford’s arms are coming back down. He blinks, and Ford thinks he looks a little… upset? Thoughtful? “Yes. We’re, well… My Ford and I, we’re well past just co-habiting together solely for work purposes, if that’s what you’re askin’…”

“You’re _married_ ,” Ford blurts. “To _her!_ ”

Fiddleford touches the gold band around his ring finger. “I take that to mean we aren’t in a polygamous relationship in 46’.”

“No!” And he’d thought their dimensions had been similar! “He doesn’t… I don’t think… We’re just friends. At least, we were friends. Until…”

Ford drops his gaze to his feet, hurt and ashamed.

“…I don’t think he’d want to speak to me again.”

“…ah,” Fiddleford murmurs.

He reaches out and lightly pats Ford’s shoulder. “If it’s any consolation… I’m terrible at holdin’ grudges. Maybe he’ll come around.”

Ford huffs loudly, still dejected. He sinks back into his seat. “If I can even make it back to my own dimension. Or die trying to. …whichever comes first.”

They turn their attention back to the blueprints for the quantum destabilizer, and the incident prior is quickly put out of their minds.

x x x

“When did you realize I loved you?”

Ford gives his partner an amused, exasperated look, as he undoes his tie and readies himself for bed.

“ _Well_ … I’d pinpoint it as that time you sat me down to talk me out of building the portal, after having compiled my research into a ready-to-print publication for emphasis, and then yelled that it was because you cared about me and, I quote, _‘Not just as a friend, you frickin’ dumb arse oblivious piece of dung!’_ Why?”

Ford crawls atop of Fiddleford, who sighs mournfully as they kiss.

“Jus’ curious.”

_Bless 46’/ me._


End file.
